The Valley of Your Heart
by positivelymeteoric
Summary: "All the stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say. Say it now."


It's remarkable the way that a memory can haunt you.

Even though he knows that his therapist is crap (and Mycroft had told him that on the very first night hadn't he? The way that she couldn't read how every inch of John's body was aching for the desert again, for the roar of the battlefield and for bullets and danger and running? But he'd been desperate in a way that scared him, desperate in a way that he hadn't been before, in a way that told that _this is the end for you_), he'd still gone to her, though it hadn't done much good, and he could still hear the words in the back of his mind, a winding whisper spoken in a dead man's voice.

_The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it. Say it now_.

John's not quite sure what he's supposed to say to that. He doesn't need catharsis or closure; all he needs is an end to the gray depth of numbness, the desperate bitter fight not to let it all swallow him whole. It's not as easy as finding that one thing that, had he managed to say to Sherlock before he killed himself (and the phrase is a cold, rusted barb in John's throat), would've made this all somehow better.

There are things, though. Things that he'd never said, that he'd wished he had. He's not sure that if saying them would've made things better. They could've even made things worse, another tie to Sherlock, another thing that he loses on that cold gray morning.

But maybe that would've been easier than carrying them around with him, heavy gray stones in his chest that nobody ever asked him if he wanted, dragging him down, pushing the air from his lungs, drowning him.

John is two blocks away from his therapist's office now, the London streets bright and buzzing with busy midsummer life. He's bewildered by it; he wants to grab the nearest pedestrian by the shoulders and ask them how the world is still turning, how they're going about their errands, how the sun is still hot on the back of his neck and how all the shops and streets and buildings still stand and how there are still colors in the world after all that has happened.

It doesn't make sense.  
None of it makes sense.

He bits his lip until it bleeds.

* * *

Eleven months before and John's life had taken up the strangest spin on domesticity the world has ever seen.

A week prior, he had gone to get something out of the hall closet and was promptly buried under an avalanche of heavy medical textbooks and unused laboratory equipment and coats that hadn't been worn in years, their fabric musty and smelling of mothballs and rot. After he'd recovered, lying in a wheezing, dusty heap on the floor, he'd made up his mind to clean it out before the detritus engulfed the flat and its occupants.

"You know," he said, wrinkling his nose with distaste as he moved a cardboard box that smelled strongly of sour milk to the discard pile without bothering to open it, "the majority of these things are yours."

Silence.

"That was me trying to get you to help."

"Busy," came Sherlock's reply, muffled by where his face was pressed into the arm of the sofa.

John was about to make a comment about how lying in the same spot for seven hours and only moving to chuck a mug at John's head (thankfully missing and shattering against the wall) didn't constitute _busy_, but his hand closed around something cold and solid in the darkness of the closet.

It was his cane. He hadn't seen it in ages; he'd never needed it after that first night (and he smiled a little fondly at that, the first chase through London, where everything was adrenaline and Sherlock and starlight), but he hadn't put it in the hall closet, which was mainly Sherlock's domain.

So that must have meant that-

"Sherlock?"

No reply.

The cane had been shoved back as far as possible in the closet without burying it in the wall, hidden under a plastic carton filled with small, delicate bones that looked as if they could've belonged to a cat in a previous life. The handle was covered in a thick layer of dust and John turned it over in his hands slowly. It looked foreign, alien, as if it had belonged to someone who John didn't know, who John didn't _want _to know.

Sherlock must've been the one to hide it in the closet. John wondered when he might've done it, sometime within the first week, most likely. It would've taken a while, moving everything around, finding a spot which John would never look. Sherlock would've known, even that early on, that John wouldn't exactly have been pleased about his hiding his possessions, so he must have been confident that John wouldn't have needed it anymore. He must have _wanted_ John not to need it anymore.

Suddenly there was something sharp and hot inside of John's chest and it became a bit difficult to breathe.

(_The dust_, he tried to tell himself. _Just the dust from the closet._ But he knew better.)

He put the cane back very carefully under the carton of bones and stood up, brushing the dust from his knees. He was all too aware of the fact that his knee didn't twinge at all as he rose, and he looked a bit fondly at the head of dark curls that was pressed into the leather of the sofa.

(_You saved my life,_ he thought to himself. _I'd have been a dead man long ago if it hadn't been for you._)

And he fully intended to say this, but instead what came out was:

"Tea?"

Sherlock pulled his head up, eyes leveled suspiciously at John.

"Yes. But if this is a bribe to get me to help you, then no."

"Not a bribe, not some scheme, just an offer."

(A thank you.)

"Oh," Sherlock said around a yawn. "In that case, yes."

As John stood in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil, he made himself a promise that someday he would tell Sherlock about finding the cane in the closet, about how he used to keep his gun in his drawer and cradle it during the night, trying to summon up the nerve to place it in his mouth. He'd tell him about the nightmares and about the way that desert sand looked when a man bled out on it and the way that some days, his hands would shake so badly that he couldn't button up his shirt. He'd tell him about how Sherlock had changed all of that.

_Someday, _he told himself. _Someday._

* * *

He passes by a newsstand and stops there for a minute, swiping at his lip. There's a splotch of blood, thick and rust-brown, on his sleeve, and the hot iron taste of it in his mouth.

In the display rack of the newsstand there's a magazine, a tabloid, slick and glossy with headlines written in an alarming shade of lime green. Wedged between a piece of

royal gossip and an item about this summer's best manicure colors is Sherlock's face. His presence in the media is waning now, but it's still there sometimes wedged between business and sports in John's morning paper, and it always feels bright and painful and intense, like touching a live wire.

Beneath Sherlock's picture is the words "A MYSTERY OF THE HEART: THE TRUTH BEHIND SHERLOCK HOLMES AND JOHN WATSON'S RELATIONSHIP. He'd be angry if it weren't so utterly ridiculous, and he laughs a little, cold and unfeeling.

(A mystery of the heart? Really? Sherlock would've found that hilarious.)

_It wasn't like that_, he wants to say. _It wasn't like that at all_.

Because it wasn't, not really. It was more than that and yet somehow less at the same time. He wasn't entirely sure what it was exactly; they'd never talked about it, never wanted to talk about it, with the exception of that one confused night, the last night.

The longer he stares at the magazine, the less funny all of it seems. He wants to buy every copy of the tabloid that the newsstand has, that every newsstand in the whole of London has, and burn them, throw them into the Thames, so that he never has to be told what Sherlock supposedly meant to him by someone who writes about handbags and boy bands for a living, by someone who doesn't understand.

He's nauseous now as he strides away from the newsstand as fast as possible, bile rising in the back of his throat. There's a constant drumbeat in the back of his head, a constant rumble of _make it stop, make it stop, make it stop._

* * *

Seven months before and John knew it was going to be a bad day when he'd woken up that morning to the sound of breaking glass.

He wasn't very pleased when he was proven right.

There was a case later in the day; an older woman found dead in her home with no notable cause, nearly a day after her husband had killed himself. It was Sally who had said, "died of a broken heart" and Sherlock had rounded on her, listing off all the reasons why that was scientifically impossible and finishing it off with a jab at her ongoing relationship with Anderson and her credentials as an officer. It had been cruel, even for him.

"How would you know?" she had said, eyes narrowed. "The way you go through life, there's not going to be anyone left to miss you when you're gone. Not a single person."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at this.

"In case you need reminding, I'm a sociopath. That fate doesn't particularly bother me."

(And John knew that this had nothing to do with him, but something in that felt like a knife to his gut. _I would mourn you_, he wanted to tell Sherlock. _I would miss you_.)

Later, it came to light that the husband has faked his suicide and the wife's heart medication had been tampered with and suddenly John found himself chasing after Sherlock through an unused office building somewhere on the outskirts of London.

The hallways were dim and winding and John realized that he'd lost track of quite where he was going.

"Sherlock?" he hissed, his voice too loud in the unnatural stillness of the building. "Sher-"

There was a sudden _crack_ from behind him and he brought his fingers up to the back of his head. They came away stained with blood. He swayed unsteadily in place.

Without warning, there was a shout and then the sound of a gun's safety being removed. Sherlock kept the gun trained on the husband, making his way over to John. His eyes were wild, frenzied, panicked.

"Are you alright? Please, just tell me you're-. John. John, please-" He had never heard his voice like that before, unsteady, unbalanced.

John tried his best to tell Sherlock that he was fine, that head wounds bleed a lot, that he would mourn him and that he would miss him, that this was the second time that Sherlock had saved him and that he'd happily repay him by making tea and shooting criminals for him until his bones turned to dust and that he was definitely not a sociopath but his mouth didn't seem to be working quite right and his vision was turning watery.

The last thing he remembered was the way that Sherlock's face had looked when John's eyes were sinking shut: pale and empty, like the loneliest man in the world.

Later on, after the doctor told John that it was just a concussion and that he can't sleep for the next few hours (all things that John already knew) and that he'll need to stay overnight, after Sherlock was removed from John's room for yelling at the nurse about the nation's declining standard of healthcare, after Sherlock snuck back into John's room and spent the better part of the night perched uncomfortably in the bedside chair, staring owlishly at John, John remembered all the things that he'd tried to tell Sherlock before he'd lost consciousness.

Some of them he filed away in a part of his mind that's filled with things he could never say out loud without thoroughly embarrassing himself, but there's one that demanded to be said.

(Because he _knew _Sherlock, knew him better than he knew himself. He had seen the ferocity in his face when the man from the CIA had tried to hurt Mrs. Hudson, the way that he had apologized, unsure and stumbling, to Molly during that disastrous Christmas party. He remembered the look in Sherlock's eyes when he'd pulled the ashtray out of his coat when they left Buckingham Palace: bright and weightless but also nervous, as if he was afraid that John would reject it. He wasn't a cold man, just a guarded one.)

(He knew him.)

"You're not, you know." His voice sounded thick, as if he was speaking around a mouthful of gauze.

"Hmmm?"

John tried to shape his mouth around the word, but his head was fuzzy, as if it was wrapped in cotton and he failed.

"What am I not?" Sherlock's voice was soft, careful.

But John couldn't speak and he let his head fall back gently against the pillows.

(He would tell him when his head didn't hurt so much, he decided. Because Sherlock had to know. He wasn't what they said he was.)

(Not one bit, not at all.)

* * *

John ducks into a coffee shop and orders the first thing he reads on the menu and waits, hands balled into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms, until the barista hands it to him from across the counter.

He sits in the corner of the shop and takes small, quick sips, not bothering to wait until it cools. He does this until his breathing is regular, until he thinks he can unclench his hands without screaming or losing his breakfast all over the small table.

He wishes Sherlock were here. Not for the obvious reason, but just so that he can grab him tight by his too thin arms and shake him and scream at him until he's red in the face and they're asked to leave because John's making a scene. He wants to punch him, not the way that he had punched him in the alley near Irene's, _really _punch him, so that there's blood on his face and John's fist throbs with pain and Sherlock has to gingerly probe at his nose to make sure it's not broken. He wants to hurt him the way he's hurt, scare him, frighten him, wants to pound at his narrow chest until it leaves bruises, proof that Sherlock's alive and not dead, proof that John can touch him, that John can hurt him. That John can hurt Sherlock just as easily as he can hurt John.

John wants Sherlock to be here, to knock on the door of 221B just so that he can shut it in his face and never see him again. John wants Sherlock to knock on the door of 221B so that he can kiss him hard, bruising hard, and make sure he never leaves again, not once, not ever. John wants Sherlock to knock on the door of 221B and make him realize that the past two months were all some terrible dream and that they need to go right now right now because Lestrade's just texted him saying that three people have been murdered but this time there's a note, just like the first night, and they need to go Sherlock needs John to come with him Sherlock needs John.

He downs the rest of the coffee in one gulp, ignoring how it burns on its way down.

* * *

One day before and it was becoming so clear how fast everything was starting to unravel. It was dark inside of Kitty Riley's flat, her sitting room stuffy and smelling strongly of cat litter and artificial lavender scented room freshener.

John was all too aware of the way that Sherlock's leg was pressed up against his on the cramped little sofa, a warm and welcome weight. He breathed out heavily through his nose, trying his best to ignore it.

Their hands were close, still cuffed together. If John wanted to, if he dared, it would be the easiest thing in the world to reach over an inch and wind his fingers through Sherlock's, turn their hands over and marvel at how well they fit together.

(But he didn't, he can't, because as easy as it would be, it would mean something, something he wasn't sure they could survive, not now, not now.)

(And so for the sake of them both, he kept his hand on his own knee.)

Sherlock's voice was soft and low and warm in the darkness, something meant for John and only John.

"Damn."

"What?"

"I'm fairly sure I left the stove on at home."

It took John a minute to realize that he was joking. Sherlock's laugh in the darkness was something comfortingly normal, his same dark, low chuckle, and John couldn't help but laugh with him despite the weakness of the joke.

(There was something about this, this strange air of finality, that made John cling to every second with Sherlock, savor it, grip it tight.)

Sherlock's laughs faded away until there was nothing but the occasional tremor next to him and John smiled.

Despite everything, despite all of it, he was happy. He wouldn't have asked to be anywhere else because he was with Sherlock, which was all that mattered.

(That was the real reason he had punched the superintendent, he knew. Not to defend Sherlock's honor or anything like that, but so that Sherlock wouldn't have to go alone.)

(Neither of them should ever have to go alone.)

There was never going to be a good time for this, he realized. It would always be inconvenient and messy and there was always the potential to ruin every fragile thing that he had.

But it would be worth it. He would be worth it.

John leaned forward, just a fraction, and Sherlock, as if sensing his motion in the darkness, did as well. There was a moment when he couldn't see anything, where neither of them moved but they were close enough for John to feel the warm huff of Sherlock's breath on his face. He let out a long, shaky breath and Sherlock leaned in.

As kisses went, it was chaste, just a soft, slow brush of lips. Sherlock's lips were chapped underneath his, cold from the night air. There was a thumb on the back of his neck, Sherlock's, making slow careful circles through his hair.

(It was better than anything that John could've imagined, better than chases or tea or running or bullets or deserts or murder or war. It was reassurance and comfort, it was healing, it was the promise of _I'll never leave you_ and_ you shouldn't have to go alone_.)

Sherlock pulled away an inch or two, his eyes a silvery light in the darkness.

"I won't leave you." His voice was thick, unsteady, a nervous whisper. "Despite how it will seem, I won't- I won't-" He broke off.

John nodded, even though he's not sure what Sherlock meant by that, and reaches out to twine their fingers together the way that he had wanted to before. He had to tell him, had to tell him how he had saved his life, how he wasn't a sociopath, how he was brave and clever and kind and good and brilliant and bright like the sun and how he should never have to go alone.

He had to tell him that he loved him.

"Sherlock, I-"

There was the click of a key turning in the doorknob and the two of them sprung guiltily apart. A moment later, the lights came on and their world began to fall apart.

* * *

John throws his coffee cup out into the trash. When he's back out on the streets for a moment, he stands for a moment, hands in his pockets.

Sherlock is dead and he is alive.

The fact is something bitter in his throat. He's never quite accepted it and he's not sure that he ever will. The idea of it is just so incredibly, perversely _wrong_, like being told that the earth is flat or that the sun won't rise tomorrow.

It knocks the legs out from underneath him and he just barely makes it to a bench.

_What am I meant to do now? _he wants to ask. It's not fair, not really, being given so much and having it snatched away so fast.

There is something that's been nagging at him in the back of his head about how all of this doesn't quite add up, how strange it all seems, the words that Sherlock had whispered to him in the darkness on the last night, his promises. He's been good at ignoring it so far, because he knows that down that path lies madness and conspiracies and lost causes.

But he loses the self-control when a stranger brushes past him on his bench, accidentally pressing on one of his toes. He jerks back and there is a mumbled apology and then the stranger is on his way.

But John knows better. He knows that voice.

There's no way of being sure- it's all so sudden and part of it could just be his mind desperately clinging to something, _anything_.

(But he's sure. He knows he's sure because he knows that voice better than anything, knows that that wasn't an accident and he'll be furious if he's right, but at the same time happier than he's ever been.)

The stranger (or is it?) has long since disappeared, but John's certain that he'll be back, and for the first time since the rooftop, he feels like he can breathe.

He comes back to the bench each morning.

He sits and he watches and he waits for the world come alive again.


End file.
